


drink hot coffee, drink hot tea

by eachandeverydimension



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Co-parenting a Plant, Fix-It, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Pining, Postcards, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 20:42:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10952364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eachandeverydimension/pseuds/eachandeverydimension
Summary: (burn your lips, and remember me)Juno and Peter make this long-distance thing work.





	drink hot coffee, drink hot tea

 

Peter comes, and Peter goes. Sometimes his name is Louis Gold, sometimes it’s Prince Damask. Rita gets used to seeing ‘Mistah’ Steel’s special friend’ and letting him into the office at all hours of the day. Juno gets used to having a certain thief in his life.

(The first time Rita catches Juno calling the so-called ‘Dark Matters Agent’ by his name, Juno brushes off her questions with “Inside joke. He looks like a Peter to me,” and exchanges a look with Peter, who just smirks.)

 * 

After the Miasma debacle, Juno leaves Nureyev in their hotel room in the middle of the night and makes the trek to his office on the other side of town. He feels bereft, but tells himself that their separation is for the better. Halfway through convincing himself that he and Peter Nureyev could never work out and his bottle of whiskey, there’s a knock on the frame of the office door.

“You know, Juno, if you wanted a drink there’s always room service. I’m sure they could have scoured their cabinets for the swill you prefer, if you requested it,” Nureyev says. The content of his words is joking, part of the regular Detective Steel and Agent Glass banter that they had struck up from their first meeting, but Nureyev’s tone is apprehensive, his gaze shuttered. It’s like he’s prepared to back off, the moment Juno gives the sign that he’s pressed too hard this time.

Juno’s eyes trace the sight of Peter Nureyev in his office. He would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that it was a sight for sore eyes. Even when Juno stared out of his window so hard that his eyes started to water, his mind never strayed from the images that persisted from their night together, just hours before. Smooth pale skin, clever hands, a wicked mouth filled with sharp teeth: that was Peter Nureyev in bed.

He was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded and posture deceptively casual. In a concession to the hour of the day and his hasty departure from the hotel room, Nureyev was missing his tie and the top three buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned. It revealed a generous portion of his décolletage, as well as the mark that Juno had worried below his collarbone, already purpling. Juno wondered if that had been deliberate, on Nureyev’s part.

Juno considered asking Nureyev how he had got in, but that would be redundant; lock picking was part of the repertoire of any self-respecting thief, and the voluminous pockets in the coat Nureyev was wearing no doubt concealed a set of lock-picks.

“Nureyev,” Juno says. “What are you doing here?”

“Detective,” Nureyev parrots back. “I would have thought we were past last names.” A slight smile on his face, he uncrossed his arms and pressed a thumb against the mark Juno had made on his skin. A small shiver trembled visibly through the long lines of Nureyev’s body.

Juno blushes at the reminder of the night they had shared. Memories of the thorough christening they had given the hotel room flashed through his head: the reverential way Nureyev had traced his scars, Juno’s ankles locked behind Nureyev’s back, Juno’s voice hoarse from shouting Peter’s name, until the upstairs neighbours had stomped on the ceiling. Nureyev had paused in the middle of his thrust, aimed exactly at the spot inside Juno that made sparks go off like fireworks behind his eyes. Their eyes met, and Peter collapsed laughing onto Juno, the sound of their delighted laughter mixing in the hotel room. When their laughter died off, Nureyev, his chest pressed close to Juno’s, finished his thrust until their hips were flush. His fingers entangled with Juno’s on either side of his head, and he caught Juno’s moan with a kiss, rolling them over so that Juno was straddling him. There were a lot more noise complaints after that first one.

Nureyev’s smile quirked up on one side. “If you didn’t want to leave Mars, I would have understood.”

Juno fixed his gaze on the city outside his window, the rising sun slowly creeping over it. He didn’t need to see Nureyev reject him. “But you would have left anyway.”

“Well, yes. Mars is too small a market for my appetite. I’d get caught far too easily, not that I don’t have confidence in my skills.” There’s a small shrug that Juno sees out of the corner of his eyes, then Nureyev crosses the room towards Juno, disappearing from view.

“But Juno, darling, haven’t you ever heard of long distance relationships?” Nureyev’s voice came from behind Juno, and his arms came up around either side of Juno’s head to wrap around his neck. Juno was enveloped in that intoxicating scent. Even cut through with sweat and sex the morning after, it still lingered at Nureyev’s pulse points and made Juno’s head spin. “I’m sure I could be convinced to make Hyperion City my home port, in a manner of speaking, because of a certain charming Detective who happens to call it his home.”

Hesitant fingers landed on Juno’s chin and guided his head towards the side with his good eye, where Nureyev’s face was hovering close. “Please say yes,” Nureyev breathed against Juno’s lips. His eyes were closed, eyelashes trembling, brow creased with just a hint of worry. “Don’t leave me again.”

What choice did Juno have? His stupid thief had thrown himself into danger again and again for him: from the first kidnapping during the Kanagawa case until the time he beat his fists bloody trying to get to Juno in the Martian tomb. He kept coming back for Juno, even when Juno walked away from him time and time again, even now.

Juno said yes, and let himself sink into Nureyev’s inviting lips.

 * 

Nureyev tells Juno of his plans in a greasy spoon two blocks down from Juno’s office, the only place open at 5am in Hyperion City. In hushed tones and over steaming cups of coffee, Nureyev traces the path he’ll take across the Outer Rim. First, a shuttle from Schiaparelli Terminal to one of Saturn’s smaller moons, Rhea. A short stint masquerading as an art curator at the national museum there, and Nureyev would be back in Hyperion City within a week, Saturnian landscape in tow.

Two cups of coffee later, Juno watched through the diner window as Nureyev got into a taxi headed for the shuttle port. Nureyev winked and blew him a kiss through the open backseat window.

Juno couldn’t wait for him to get back.

  * 

Peter’s presence in Juno’s life is like a breeze on a hot Martian summer’s day: there and gone again before you knew it even came. Some days Juno will wake up and know Peter’s been there in the night only by the clues he leaves in his wake: the smell of his cologne on the pillow next to Juno’s, and a tray of Venusian candied dates on the kitchen counter like an offering. Other times it’s a mug of coffee on the bedside table, already lukewarm by the time Juno stirs. (This being Peter, the mug says ‘See Uranus in Your SK-Maersk’ in eye-splittingly bright purple above a sleek hover-car and was borrowed from and never returned to a car dealership on one of the inner Uranian rings.)

But some days… Some days Peter comes, and stays. Juno will wake to cold toes poking his calves, the antiseptic smell of travel still clinging to Peter’s skin. Peter will tuck up behind Juno, hair tickling Juno’s neck and cheek plastered against Juno’s back. He follows Juno into the office and reads The Hyperion Daily when there isn’t a case. When there is, he tags along and fades into the background as he’s so good at doing. At the first sign of danger, Peter is there, stiletto knife at the ready as back-up to Juno’s blaster. And sometimes, when it’s been a slow day and Peter is bored, they go home to Juno’s apartment and make dinner and watch one of those movies that Rita is obsessed over, laughing at the cheesy lines and necking during the action scenes.

It’s a good life, and Juno is absurdly happy like he never thought he could be. It feels like it shouldn’t last, but against all odds, it does.

  * 

Sometimes, Peter sends postcards. Because he knows Juno never checks the mail to his apartment, he addresses it to the office instead. Rita inevitably reads them, because she can’t help basking in the second-hand glow of Juno’s new relationship, and also because “it just landed writing-side up, Mistah’ Steel!”

The first one arrives during Peter’s third absence, and the first time he’s away for more than a month. Sharp edges rounded from the journey across half the solar system, a postcard depicting a massive neo-chrome Newton’s cradle, presumably one of the locale’s attractions, drops into the office post-box two weeks after Juno kisses Peter goodbye at the shuttle terminal.

_My darling Juno,_

_Vrons was a blast! I’ll see you soon._

_Signed, your honeyboo_

 

It’s all Juno can do to blush a furious red and snatch the postcard from Rita’s hands, storming into his office and slamming the door shut. He’ll never admit to anyone that he presses the cardstock to his nose, hoping to catch the scent of Peter’s cologne which had already faded from his apartment.

 *  

In the clinging dark shadows where most of his victims see him, if they even do, Peter’s eyes look dark brown, even seeping into inky black. But under direct light and close inspection (and believe him, Juno had a _lot_ of chances to stare deep into Peter’s eyes ever since they started their relationship), they were an utterly gorgeous copper colour. Bright light brown with a tinge of red, just like one of those old Earth copper pennies they displayed in museums.

They were probably the real thing. There were methods to change your natural eye colour; Cassandra Kanagawa had recently premiered a striking pair of amethyst irises in the latest season of her show. But no con-man would make himself more recognizable, even in the name of vanity. Peter took efforts to conceal them too. His disguises ran the gamut, but always included one of the following: sunglasses, contact lenses, regular glasses. The unusual colour was only really visible when Peter took off his glasses and stood in bright light, neither of which happened very often.

But tangled in bed together, ankles locked around each other’s and Juno’s bicep pillowing Peter’s head, Juno had the perfect opportunity to observe the beautiful colour of his thief’s eyes. Peter nuzzled against Juno’s neck, and his eyes slowly opened as he stirred, revealing his bright copper irises. He blinked once, twice, before pressing a slow sleepy kiss to Juno’s chin and sinking back into sleep.

Juno stayed still and felt his heart explode inside his chest with the sheer love he held for Peter Nureyev. He was _gone gone gone_ , but he didn’t give a fuck.

  * 

Juno gets used to some things in his life. Nureyev goes from being called _Nureyev_ in Juno’s mind to being called _Peter_. He accustoms himself to waking up to the sight of Peter Nureyev sprawled in the bed next to him in the morning light, head buried into the pillow and one arm thrown over his head, a perfect triangle of moles scattered over his right shoulder blade.

He gets used to the strangest fucking places where he’ll catch a whiff of Peter’s cologne. (That, combined with Peter’s penchant for expensive clothes was going to do him in one day, but it hasn’t so far, so Juno can’t complain.) A winter coat, left here when Peter departed for a sunny planet. It hangs in a corner of their shared wardrobe, and infuses the rest of Juno’s clothes with the subtle musky fragrance of Peter’s cologne. Besides that, he’s also pretty sure Peter is fucking with him, because Juno opens the sink cupboard to look for bleach once, and smells that familiar smell. He almost whirls around just to check if Peter is standing right behind his shoulder. (He isn’t. He’s on a planet two light-years away, and Juno’s bones ache with the wanting of him.)

  * 

Mostly Peter fucks Juno. He likes taking Juno apart until he can’t string a sentence together, taking Juno out of his mind and then taking care of him afterwards.

Sometimes though, Juno fucks Peter. When he’s getting fucked, Peter doesn’t go for anything as common as a bed. Instead, it’s braced against the wall in Juno’s apartment, faint scratches left behind on the wallpaper as Juno fucks Peter senseless. Other times, Peter will beckon Juno towards him with a wicked gleam in his eyes while he’s perched on the kitchen table, and he’ll end up spread across it, the table screeching something awful with every thrust Juno nails against Peter’s prostate.

One time, the most memorable time, Peter drops by the office during lunch-hour. He hands Rita a crisp fifty-cred note, asks her for a curry vindaloo from the restaurant four blocks down, and marches into Juno’s office. In thirty seconds flat, he’s lowered the blinds, tossed off his coat to reveal that he was wearing absolutely nothing underneath, and settled himself into Juno’s lap.

“Hello, Detective. I thought you deserved a little afternoon delight for working so hard this week,” Peter croons against Juno’s ear, already grinding against his growing erection.

Seventeen minutes later, Peter is lounging on the couch in Juno’s office, the very image of the cat that got the cream (in more than one way). He plucks the curry vindaloo out of Rita’s hands, winks at Juno, and is out the door as quick as he breezed in.

  * 

“Seriously, Jane and John Smith?” Juno says, flapping the boarding passes at Peter.

“Well, you’ve objected to my flashier aliases before, so I thought you would be more amendable towards the classics,” Peter says. They’re popping by the office so Juno can hand off some paperwork to Rita and pick up his misplaced communicator.

“ _And_ you got us aisle seats in the back row.” Juno stacked a heap of folders onto Rita’s desk and tried to tune out her complaining.

“What can I say? Occupational hazard. I like to know who I’m sharing my transport with,” Peter said, checking his watch. “I’ll go hail us a cab while you look for your communicator.”

Juno waved him off and headed towards his desk. Where was that damned communicator? When Rita got the files balanced on her desk, she trailed after him into his office.

“Hey boss, what does Mistah’ Glass do anyway? He don’t look like a Dark Matters Agent no more,” Rita asked.

“Oh, he quit that job. He’s just a regular Robin Hood now. Ah-ha!” The communicator was in the desk drawer.

There was a little shriek from Rita as Peter piped up from where he was waiting at the door. “You could call me a jack of all trades. I quit the job at Dark Matters because the pay was abysmal. Self-employment is the way to go now, Rita.” A hover-taxi was parked on the street.

“Alright, I got what I need. Let’s go,” Juno said to Peter. “Rita, take care of the office for two weeks, alright?”

“Sure thing, Mistah’ Steel!” Rita replied, waving them off at the door.

“And no movie marathons!” Juno shouted out the backseat.

“But Mistah’ Steel!” Rita yelled back. Her voice echoed down the street in the wake of the departing hover-cab.

  * 

Peter is perched on the windowsill leading to the fire escape when Juno wakes in the middle of the night. One of Peter’s legs dangled out of the window while the other was folded against his chest, an elbow holding it close. Peter’s eyes were closed as he brought a cigarette dangling in his fingers to his mouth for a drag; his lips parted, and he let out a smoky exhale. Juno stared at Peter’s hair in the moonlight. This week, it was black and made Peter look unusually serious.

“Hello, stranger. What you are you doing in my house?” Juno murmured.

“Well, a certain Aurelius Quill has quite a penchant for expensive cigarettes,” Peter said, flourishing his wrist so the gold foil around his cigarette flashed in the moonlight. “Unfortunately, the authorities lost track of him when the shuttle he boarded got redirected to Hyperion City. Since Aurelius is not here to enjoy it, I thought I might finish the last cigarette off for him.”

Peter’s voice was foreign and familiar at the same time; he segued in and out of Aurelius Quill’s crisp Jovian accent and his own Brahman drawl, a testament to his weariness. He’d been gone for seven weeks. When he took on a persona for extended period of time, it always took a little while before Peter became himself again. His eyes slowly opened as he spoke, and he stared at Juno, who had sat up against the headboard.

“What, you’re not even going to share?” Juno teased. Peter’s eyes were luminous in this light, almost blood-red. He was like a different person entirely.

“Why, detective. I didn’t know you partook in this particular vice.”

“I grew up in Hyperion City. Guy picks up a lot of bad habits growing up here. I managed to kick some. Others stayed.”

Peter unfolded himself from the windowsill and settled himself on the bed near Juno’s waist. The smell of the cigarette overwhelmed Peter’s cologne. In the darkness of the night, with his unfamiliar hair and clothes and smell, it was almost easy to imagine Peter was someone else.

The way he said Juno’s name, though, remained the same. Deep and dark with an undercurrent of desire, even when he said it in the most innocent of circumstances. It made Juno veritably shiver. “Here you go, Juno,” Peter said, and put the cigarette, still in his grasp, against Juno’s lips. “Don’t say I never get you anything nice.”

The feeling of Peter’s fingers pressed up against his sensitive lips made Juno thrill, as did the thought of putting his lips onto the cigarette that Peter’s had just touched. It was just what he expected of Peter. He made Juno feel like some sort of teenager, every touch sending sparks through his nervous system like he was experiencing it for the first time.

Juno took a deep drag and felt the warm smoke fill his lungs. A calloused thumb brushed Juno’s lips before Peter himself took a drag of the cigarette too. Juno leant back and admired the line of Peter’s neck as he tilted his head back to exhale smoke towards the bedroom ceiling.

Peter spirited the half-smoked cigarette away into a monogrammed portable ashtray, then he laid his head against Juno’s shoulder, breath warm and damp against Juno’s neck.

“I missed you so much, darling. I hate being away from you for so long,” Peter sighed.

One of Juno’s hands started carding through Peter’s dark locks. He considered a witty response, something about Juno’s expensive tastes and Peter needing to keep him happy. Then he settled on the honest truth. “I missed you too. Apartment felt too empty without you here.”

“Well, I’m here to stay for a while,” Peter yawned. “I could just keel over and sleep for a week straight.”

“Get into bed. I’ll bring you breakfast tomorrow morning. How does French toast sound?”

“You’re my absolute favourite, Juno.” Peter clambered sluggishly across Juno onto his side of the bed, and Juno laid down so his shoulder could cushion Peter’s head. “I could just kiss you,” Peter murmured against Juno’s skin. He stretched his neck up to reach Juno’s mouth, gave up because it was too far, and just mashed his mouth again Juno’s collarbone, already snoring.

It was the best sleep Juno had in ages.

  * 

 _Visit beautiful New Arazuelo, where the sky is always blue_ , entreated the postcard that arrived in the mail. Wherever it was, New Arazuelo looked like a dream, all glittering crimson beaches and vivid blue-green sunsets. Peter always had a knack for choosing vacation planets as his destinations.

_Baby, I miss you already._

_Caught a performance of Madama Butterfly yesterday and it was simply smashing. I’ll have to bring you one day._

 

No name this time. Instead, Peter had doodled in the corner of the postcard. A little cat in a top hat, with a shining monocle affixed on three of its compound eyes. Presumably, it was Juno’s attire when Peter brought him to the opera.

Juno grinned, and tucked the postcard away into his coat for safekeeping.

  * 

Peter gets Juno a lot of things. He’s a gift-giver, Peter is.

It starts with a Venusian fly-trap.

“Juno, meet Francis.”

Peter was cradling a terracotta pot in his hands when Juno stumbled out of the bedroom, still groggy. He was seated at the kitchen table, which Juno bypassed to beeline his way towards the percolator.

“What?” Juno said. Unless there was a gunman called Francis holding Peter at gunpoint, which didn’t appear to be the case, he was more concerned with getting caffeine into his system. Peter looked to be in good spirits, in fact. His gaze kept darting down at the pot in his grasp, which was filled to the brim with dark loamy earth, the expensive kind imported from Earth.

“I’ve decided to take the next step in our relationship, Juno.”

 _That_ caught Juno’s attention.

Peter continued, “I’ve always wanted one of these, but you know how much I need to travel with my job. Lugging one around the solar system with me is utterly impractical. But now I think we’re ready for the responsibility of nurturing a new life, Juno.” He smiled and met Juno’s eyes over his coffee mug.

“Okay…?” Juno said, because it seemed like Peter was waiting for a response of some kind. Juno really didn’t know what was going on.

“I’m glad you agree with me. Anyway, this is Francis the Venusian fly-trap. He’ll need to be placed in moderate sunlight and watered twice daily. Let’s pick somewhere to put him!” Peter sprang out of his seat and started towards the bedroom.

When Juno trailed after him, Peter had placed the pot on the windowsill. He was staring at the pot intently, thumb rubbing over his bottom lip. “What do you think? It’s either here or the kitchen window. I thought here was more appropriate because there might be fumes from cooking and such in the kitchen.”

“Peter, I think you’re missing something. There’s no plant in that pot.”

“Well that’s because we’re growing Francis from the seed! To be accurate, this is really Francis the Seventh. His predecessors didn’t make it.”

“Wait, so let me get this straight. You want to grow this plant-” At Peter’s raised eyebrow, Juno amended, “Okay, Francis, together with me?”

“Exactly right, Juno.” Peter beamed.

Juno shrugged. “Okay.” He had never been into botany, but it made Peter happy, ergo it made Juno happy. A plant wouldn’t take up too much space, nor too much time. Juno was just glad Peter didn’t get them a cat. Dealing with Maia King’s imposter cat had been more than enough feline interaction for him.

Juno had to say he didn’t expect the emotional investment he would feel for Francis. Three days after Peter brought him home, Juno reluctantly stepped away from his potential third high-score at Jovian solitaire at Peter’s insistent beckoning. When he saw the tiniest green shoot poking out of the earth though, he had to admit that it was kind of cool. Something was alive because of him, and all he had to do was water twice a day.

Time passed. Francis grew bigger, green leaves splotched with iridescent blue unfurling as his stem got longer. Things go pretty well, until Peter leaves for a long con on New Sol, and Juno gets engrossed in a fascinating case about missing antique records. The breadcrumb trail of clues leads him up and down the streets of Hyperion City, and keeps him in his office for days on end.

Juno is right on the verge of solving the case when Peter storms into the office two days earlier than he was due, and exclaims, “Juno, you haven’t been taking care of Francis!”

Peter brandished Francis’ pot to punctuate his statement, and the Venusian fly-trap’s withered form shook with the motion. A few forlorn leaves drifted to the floor.

_Oh shit._

Long story short, Juno solves the case, and Peter is cross with Juno for about three days, after which they make up and painstakingly coax Francis back into flourishing.

After that, Francis eventually gets relocated to the Steel Detective Agency office. The move happens both to prevent another incident of Juno forgetting to care for Francis when he’s caught up in a case, and also because Francis was outgrowing the windowsill.

Things work out well. Rita helps water Francis whenever Juno’s out of the office, and when Juno’s incredibly bored, instead of sniping at Rita he cleans Francis’ leaves with a damp cloth. He finds it surprisingly calming. It’s an overall win. The office gets livelier, and Peter and Juno still get to co-parent Francis while Rita babysits when needed. Whenever Peter pops by the office, he never fails to say hello and pat the top fronds fondly.

It spoke a lot about the influence Peter had on Juno’s life that Juno was now hung up about a potted plant. Juno had to say he rather liked his new life, post-Peter Nureyev.

  * 

“Mail, Mistah’ Steel!” Rita hollered as she came in the office door.

“Anything interesting?” Juno asked. It had been a slow week, with Peter gone and only the usual infidelity cases that necessitated lengthy mind-numbing stake-outs outside motels.

“Not sure yet, but there’s something from Mistah’ Glass!”

“What? Hand it over,” Juno said, scrambling up from where he was slouched in his chair. He chose to ignore Rita’s loud _aww_ and brought the postcard over to the window.

An elaborate maze spread out over the small card, twists and turns snaking their way across the surface. The maze walls were made of a lustrous light blue stone, shining in the light of a full moon perched in the top right corner. At the centre of the maze and the postcard, two passages opened up into a clearing, where two small figures embraced. The name of the place depicted was printed in small neat words at the bottom right corner: _The Labyrinth of Ios_.

Juno flipped the postcard over.

 

_Local legends say that two lovers entering the labyrinth from different entrances will always rendezvous at the centre, as long as theirs is a true love._

_We’ll have to test the veracity of their claim sometime, darling._

_Remember to drink more water, I hear that the Martian dust-storms are brewing._

 

Juno rolled his eyes at Peter’s reminder. He was always after Juno to hydrate himself more.

No signature, but when Juno waved the postcard through the air, the scent of Peter’s cologne wafted off the paper. Juno had let slip, rather embarrassingly, that he always tried to catch Peter’s smell off the mail he sent. In return, Peter had left a small bottle of his cologne in the bathroom, and promised to flick a few drops of it on his postcards afterwards.

The scent lingers in his office for hours, even after he returns to the office at night, having caught Mr Andolan in bed with the chauffeur. When Mrs Andolan is done weeping after Juno breaks the news to her, she sniffs and says, “Did you get a new air freshener? It smells great in here.”

Juno smiled. “Yeah, it does.”

  * 

“Peter, I need to tell you something.”

Their breaths were rasping in their chests, backs plastered against the wall that was their only shelter against the blaster shots of five goons running down the hallway behind them.

“Not that I don’t love the sound of your voice, Juno. But unless what you’re about to tell me is that you’ve found an escape route, now is really not the time for it,” Peter said, head peeking behind the wall and narrowly avoiding a blaster shot to the face.

“Peter Nureyev, I love you.”

Juno hadn’t planned on telling Peter this when they took the case for a pilfered neuroscience prototype that morning.

But now here they were, trapped at a dead end with goons in pursuit, their blasters all set to kill. All this just reminded Juno of how he had never really told Peter to his face that he loved him. Peter had to know, of course. There was the roundabout answer Juno had given him that first night, _if you’re a fool that makes two of us_. Impulsive words, chosen for how clever they sounded because Juno couldn’t bring himself to tell Peter he loved him when the idea of leaving had already popped into Juno’s mind.

Even now, after months of being an _us_ and countless cases where Peter had tagged along and even more Juno took alone where he had to keep himself from worrying about where Peter was, all alone in the great big solar system, the words hadn’t passed Juno’s lips.

Peter, though. Peter Nureyev, sans personas, is an effusive and tactile person. He likes to slouch over behind Juno and tuck his neck on Juno’s shoulder to read the newspaper alongside him. Peter tells Juno that he loves him, and he loves Juno’s cooking, and he loves his couch. Peter Nureyev believes in telling the people he love that he loves them. After all, what could be worse than letting someone slip away without letting them know? Whenever the topic comes up, Peter’s eyes get a little faraway, and Juno thinks about what he saw in the Martian tomb, and knows that Peter’s thinking of Mags. Peter’s told Juno that he love him countless times, and Juno hasn’t said it back.

But in the here, and now, Rita unreachable over the communicator and the threat of dying by blaster very real, all Juno can think about isn’t escape routes. Instead, Juno thinks, _I can’t let Peter die without him knowing I fucking love him._ So he blurts it out.

“Wha- Juno.” There was an open expression on Peter’s face, melting into pleasure and shock. He smiled, a wide delighted thing that lit up his face.

Juno’s hand shot out to pull Peter towards him. An errant blaster shot scorched the wall right behind where his head had been, but Peter paid it no mind.

Face half-smushed against his chest, Peter beamed at Juno. One of Peter’s hands, slightly cold, reached up behind Juno’s neck to guide him down for a kiss. When their lips met, it was familiar, like any of the hundreds of kisses they had traded.

When Peter pulled back, he whispered, quiet and earnest, against Juno’s lips. “I love you too, Juno.”

Eyes darting upwards, he continued. “Lucky for you, the person you love is good at finding escape routes.”

Juno looked up towards the cleverly concealed access hatch right above them, and grinned.

  * 

Okay, so Juno knows he’s got some problems, alright? He knows that there’s this little thing called self-esteem, and it’s not supposed to be hard to come by or whatever. People, _normal_ people, aren’t supposed to wake up most mornings and need to fight off their self-loathing to get out of bed.

But knowing he has a problem doesn’t really help him get rid of it. They say knowing you have a problem is the first step towards solving it, but Juno guesses he just got stuck at step one.

Peter helps, though. Peter listens when Juno wants to talk, and he distracts Juno when he doesn’t. He asks questions that he doesn’t require Juno to answer. And it helps, to tell someone else instead of bottling it up. Juno talks about Oldtown, about his brother, about Sasha and Mick and how the three of them fell apart. He tells Peter about the guilt he feels about what happened, of how he’s convinced that it was all his fault.

In return, Peter tells Juno about his past. About the parts Juno already knows about: Brahma and Mags and the Guardian Angel system. And more, parts of his life that Juno knows nothing about. Life on the streets as a child, the things he saw and the things he did that haunt him even now. About life after Mags, when Peter roamed on his own and refined his skills. About the crushing loneliness that threatened to consume him, and how Peter dealt with it.

Things get better for both of them. Juno sleeps easier at night, and wakes without guilt clawing at his chest most days. Peter stops getting that faraway look in his eyes that often. There are bad days, still. Days when Juno feels like he’s the absolute worst person in the history of humankind, like everything terrible that’s ever happened is because of him. Days when Peter will come back home, pockets of his coat laden with petty thefts and gaze faraway, mind reliving the painful past.

But on those difficult days, Juno will bring Peter back to the present with a warm palm at the back of his neck, and a hot sweet cup of herbal tea for Peter to warm his hands. Peter returns the favour by leading Juno’s mind to wander down happier paths, and tugging him out the door to take a walk.

Juno likes to think that he and Peter make each other better.

  * 

Juno still thought that it was ridiculous to go into a labyrinth in the middle of the night, but Peter had insisted. “The postcard was set at night! It’s more romantic under the light of a full moon,” he had said.

So Juno acquiesced. It wasn’t like they didn’t have the time. Their brief sojourn on Ionian soils, where the labyrinth was located, was more of a vacation than anything else. Four days later, they would depart for Ganymede, Io’s sister planet, to meet one of Peter’s contacts who owned a shooting range there. After that, Juno would be immersed in honing his aim under the tutelage of one of the solar system’s best marksmen who owed Peter a favour. But until then, there was nothing to do but laze around, drink good alcohol, and explore the tourist-traps.

Up-close, the walls of the labyrinth were more stunning than Juno had pictured in his mind. The postcard didn’t do it any justice. The pale blue stone was shot through with fractals of gold, which caught the light of the full moon and glittered whenever Juno tilted his head a particular direction. The walls stretched out on every side of him.

Peter had parted from him at the two side-by-side entrances of the labyrinth. A quick kiss, a promise to meet at the centre, and he had disappeared down the entrance on the right, leaving Juno to take the left. It must have been ten minutes ago that they stepped into the labyrinth.

Intellectually, Juno knew that the way to get through a labyrinth was to put one hand on a wall and follow the paths, never taking your hand off the wall. But there was no rush today, no case to solve or villain to thwart, only a promised rendezvous at the centre of the labyrinth and a silly bet with trivial stakes. Juno would take his time, and pick his path by gut instinct. Besides, Peter had been right: the labyrinth really was more beautiful in the moonlight. Juno imagined that the bright sunlight would reflect off the polished stone surface, and make it too bright to appreciate. The moonlight, infinitely more tender, caressed the pale blue stone and coaxed it into lustrousness. If it hadn’t been for Peter, Juno would never have come to such a beautiful place.

Juno strolled through the winding paths, footsteps almost silent on the soft ground beneath. The walls of the labyrinth stood twice his height, and the path was wide and bright enough for Juno not to trip over anything. He dragged his fingertips across the wall, feeling the minute bumps that marked threads of gold, disturbing the smoothness of the stone. The chilly night air caressed Juno’s face. He could imagine how cold Peter’s fingers and nose would be later, how he would seek the warmth of Juno’s neck, or his waist.

The path ahead seemed brighter, right after the next turn. Juno figured he might as well head for the centre; he had given Peter enough time to make his way there first.

Juno stopped, right before he stepped away from the relatively shadowed path into the open, bright courtyard at the centre of the labyrinth. He took a deep breath in. The scent of some kind of Jovian flower, mixed in with the peculiar cold, sharp smell that marked the evening. And, so faint that it could have been Juno’s imagination, the slightest notes of Peter Nureyev’s cologne.

Juno stepped out, and when he looked to his left, Peter was there, leaning against the wall with faux casualness.

“Well, that’s one thing crossed off the to-do list. Prove that it’s true love, check,” Peter wryly drawled.

“Anything else on that to-do list of yours that I could help you with?” Juno said, crowding close to Peter’s body. One of Peter’s hands, cold embers against Juno’s skin, crept beneath the collar of Juno’s shirt to clasp his neck.

“There is the matter of fulfilling a small wager agreed upon before entering the labyrinth. I believe the stakes were a blowjob under the moonlight?”

“You _did_ reach the centre before me,” Juno said, as he leant in for a kiss with Peter, endlessly familiar yet new every time.

“To the winner, the spoils,” Juno said, as he slowly sank to his knees with a smirk.

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful thing about podcasts? You get to headcanon how every character looks.
> 
> I just want Juno to be happy with his boyfriend, okay? So I word-vomited all my Jupeter feels into this fic after I finished Final Resting Place.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed it!


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